The Missing Half
by StitchinSnitch
Summary: George, and George alone, returns to the joke shop after the battle of Hogwarts. There is something tremendously wrong with this picture.


Author's Note: This is my very first story on FanFiction, and I'm a little nervous. But, if you take the time to read it, thank you! It means a lot!

Disclaimer: No part of the wizarding world or anyone in it is mine. It all belongs to the brilliant JKR.

The Missing Half

When George Weasley pulled out his wand to tap the third brick from the left above the trash bins in the small back garden at The Leakey Cauldron, he felt a stab of guilt. Fred had died a month ago today. His mind flicked to the image of Fred, being cradled in his mother's arms as she cried. He had stood back as disbelief swept though him. Not out of lack of sadness, had he not shed a tear for his brother then, but out of lack of comprehension. Fred, his partner in all magical mischief making and rule breaking, simply could not be dead; they were supposed to be together til they were old and had beards like Dumbledore's.

Shaking his head as if to free it from the image, he tapped the brick and stepped through the arch into Diagon Alley. He wandered almost aimlessly thought the street, examining the shops in their various states of repair. Ollivander's had been restored yet was still as dark and dusty as it always had been. Mr. Ollivander could be seen through the small shoppe window re-shelving wands and as George walked past, he touched his hand to his forehead; a salute to one who had the strength to pick up his life and try to carry on.

George rounded a bend in the street and felt a lump rise in his throat. There, ahead of him, with windows smashed and the door hanging limply on its hinges, stood the joke shop. Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes, normally bright purple and orange looked as faded and lost as George felt. The paint was peeling away from every surface. George swallowed very hard and walked to the doorway.

As he stepped though it, his feet crunched over glass shards and splinters of wood. Shelves were shattered, their contents strewn across the floor and mingled with upended barrels and boxes. George sat down on an overturned box the label of which was still visible, if only just. _Weasleys' Wildfire Whiz-Bangs _it read. George put his face in his hand. He closed his eyes and it was if he had fallen into a pensive.

There he and Fred were, giving Ron an acid pop. '_It's only a lolly ickle ronniekins, we swear!' _Fred has promised as George nodded vigorously. Ron had put the pop in his mouth only to draw it out a moment later shrieking with pain. They could see a hole, still smoking, burned clear though Ron's tongue. Such a beating, Fred and George had never had.

Then Dudley and the toffee. Mr. Weasley had said the tongue had grown to 4 feet before Petunia had allowed him to shrink it. George remembered how everyone had laughed and laughed at that. He and Fred high fived over the tiny kitchen table.

Their trick wands, which had delighted Ludo Bagman at the world up the summer before their fifth year. People bursting into feather in the Gryffindor common room, then gushing blood from their noses or running to the loo to throw up, simply to get out of class. Their jokes had been a huge success with the Hogwarts students. He remembered how he and Fred had stood on a table in the common room one evening and counted no less than fifteen people becoming birds without warning, only to molt a few minutes later surrounded by roars of laughter from their friends. Fred's face had glowed with their success.

"We will be legend, dear brother! Famous in these halls as the mischief makers to rival all others!" Fred had cried, as he'd slung an arm around George's neck.

Then their escape from Hogwarts with the display of the fireworks upon which George was now sitting.

When the war started, they had become everyone's source for laughs. Perhaps the only source. The joke shoppe, in it's heyday had been beautiful, George remembered. On opening day, he and Fred had stood back to back and waved their wands to start the many contraptions whirring and ringing and banging. They had then retreated a safe distance from the doors and observed the crowd outside, waiting to get in.

"Care to do the honors?" Fred asked.

"No good brother, the honor should be yours!" George had replied.

"Together then," Fred had decided. "On three, ready? One... two... three!" Together they pointed their wands at the locks on the double doors and they burst magically open. Excited young witches and wizards came pouring in waves over the threshold. The store had been alive with laughter and the clatter of feet as people raced to get a glimpse of everything.

Now all was silent and half lit.

George lifted his head from his hand and sniffed once. His vision blurred slightly from the tears threatening to spill over his face. If this had been any other break in, any other destruction of their shop, he would still have had Fred to joke about it with. He could make anything into a joke, his brother could.

"He'd never allow you to get like this, you know," said a small voice in his head. "You owe it to him to get off your rear and get this place going again."

"I suppose you're right." George said aloud to the voice. He got heavily to his feet and drew out his wand, then stopped. The destruction was too great. No amount of jokes or tricks could ever fill the hole in his heart left by his twin. George marched though the wreckage on the first floor and up the stairs in the center of the shop. He stopped on the landing, turned left and pushed open the door concealed behind a fireworks display which led to what had once been his and Fred's inventing room.

This room had remained untouched. A sanctuary in the midst of the storm. George went to the one corner devoted to things of a boring, professional nature. He looked at Fred's desk, thought a moment, then sat down. He remembered the long evenings that he and his brother had spent in this room, thinking of ideas, making things explode, and creating wondrous new jokes. He looked over the surface of the desk, which was riddled with burn marks, small holes and the occasional stain, that looked remarkably like Canary Cream. He felt the tears begging again. _Fred,_ he thought, _how am I ever supposed to come up with anything without you? _

He opened the desk drawer, looking for a tissue. A fire work came whizzing out of it and exploded in a shower of purple and orange sparks. The dazzling colors illuminated the contents of the drawer and George was stunned by what he saw.

Inside was a tarnished silver picture frame. He pulled it out and read the engraving on it. "The Mischief Makers to Rival All Others! June 8, 1996". Opening day at the joke shop. George saw the flash pop as a photographer took his and Fred's picture in front of the shop. They were shaking each others hand, each trying to pull off their best pompous impression of Percy. As he watched, the black and white twins both cracked at the same time and fell into fits of laughter. George smiled for the first time since the battle a month ago_. Alright, _he thought determinedly_, This shop __**will **__come back. Better than ever._

As he left the office, still clutching the photograph in its frame, another firework went off, with a small hopeful bang.

-FIN-


End file.
